Book Description

This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can usually download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1921 edition. Excerpt: ... Spectator," March, 1901. The Muse Something great and something beautiful, Something from beyond and far away Reaches here in waves of lightning flashes, Seeking for itself the crown of song. Bard, awake; take from the forest's trembling, Mingle with the storm-cloud's threatful anger, And remember the old song of Pindar: "I am not a maker of stone statues; Maker of songs am I " The Poet Among the gardens of Hesperides, I loved the fruit that bent the topmost bough Of a gold apple tree; Awake me not. And with my harp of gold and ivory, I try to make a captive of the sound That holds all men in thrall; And with my song To tame the savage dragon guard. Thk Muse Awake; you are no maker of stone statues; Awake; maker of songs you are; And in your song, my chosen one, There are all things of flesh and spirit From dreams of lilies To thirsts of nations; Awake and see The Poet I see; above me spreads a sky Like a faint smile on Sirens' lips; And at my feet--O futile longings--The cursed country of the Greeks The corsair Time Has buried in abysmal depths Alive this matchless queen of deed and thought. And now, blow after blow, the searching pick Of the wise antiquarian unearths The buried bones Of a huge broken skeleton; A wilderness about; and blasphemies Of shouting mobs tear through the sacred air; Languid and idle people live a life Of indolence. Glory, alas is not a thing of ruins; Glory is only the great fir that stands A fearless challenge to the thunderbolt; And glory is the great tree that can match Stout branches with the wings of birds And casts a shadow dripping with cool dew On ruddy sun-tanned laborers. And glory is the tree that falls When the wood-cutter strikes it with his axe, And falls With all the violence of a wounded...